


The First Course of the Moveable Feast

by CoffeeWithConsequences



Series: Deception Series [5]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Eames-centric, F/M, First Time, Het, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 21:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13622358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences
Summary: A prequel story for112 Words for Deception, this is a brief look at the first time Eames meets Polly as Polly, in Paris. It's an encounter they both remember in 112 Words, this just gives a bit more graphic detail.





	The First Course of the Moveable Feast

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place before any of the other [Deception series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/881298) stories, but does refer to some things that happen in those stories, so may not completely make sense on its own.

Though he prefered them to his last deployment unit (no contest, really), Eames wasn’t all that fond of his new cohort in Paris. So many rich, spoiled kids, playing at being criminals. He knew they were people he needed to get next to, and he integrated himself fairly easily, but they were a tiresome lot. This new person he was becoming, this Eames, with his shady background and polite accent and newly made ties to various types of theft--he could be quite charming. 

Tonight’s escapade was nothing more than drinks in a dusty, smoky cafe. He knew only a couple of the people who would be there, but had been encouraged to meet the others. It was the last thing he felt like doing, but needs must. It was already late when he went to meet them, so maybe he wouldn’t have to stay long.

At first glance, the table looked exactly as he’d expected. Ronaldo, a tempermental Spaniard with whom Eames was barely on speaking terms, held court with his sometimes-girlfriend, Jessie, a snub-nosed, freckle-faced English girl who, last time she was properly pissed, had told Eames quite seriously she’d blow him in the bathroom. He thought about taking her up on it, but figured it wasn’t worth the fall-out. The only other person he knew at the table was a dark-haired Paris native, Mallorie Miles, who tended to stay quietly on the fringes of things. She made him uneasy, for reasons he didn’t yet understand.

Eames exchanged quick pleasantries with the two men he didn’t know--both were Eastern European, serious-faced. Eames filed their names and faces in his head immediately, waiting for more information on how they would fit into the current Paris scene. Then he looked toward the dark-haired woman at the edge of the table and, just for a moment, held his breath.

It was her. Julia, or Natalie, or whomever else she might be. She looked different again, a long, dark braid and a whip-thin body, dressed in a short skirt and high boots. But her face was unmistakable, and he caught the look of recognition in those green-gold eyes, even though nobody else at the table would. “Bonjour,” she said, voice silky. Her accent was English, posh and smooth. “Faire la connaissance. Je m'appelle Polly.” She looked him up and down, letting the corner of her mouth twitch the tiniest amount.

“English?” he asked, addressing the group as a whole. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep up in French.” It was a lie, of course, but there was no reason to give anything away. 

“Of course,” Ronaldo said, his English thickly accented. “We were just talking about Mal’s father.”

The conversation meandered on, through various graduate programs, newly released books and plays, the best cafes to try. It was all insipid, and Eames had trouble paying attention. Instead, he stole glances at “Polly,” watching her slim fingers exchange one glass for another, noticing a very slight tremor. She drank heavily, but seemed none the worse for it. 

“So, your accent tells me you’re from the home country,” he asked her, once the conversation hit a break. “Where abouts?” It was time to see the web she was spinning.

“Kensington,” she said, barely looking up. “Awful place. I assume you know it?”

Eames chuckled. “Indeed.” He had to admit her accent was perfect. Then again, her other accents had been perfect, too. Before he could ask her any more questions, Ronaldo broke in again.

It was nearly two hours later when the group finally broke up, Mal headed off in one direction with the two Bulgarians, Ronaldo and Jessie taking the other. Polly held back, as Eames expected she might, then tilted her head toward the alley in between the cafe and the next building. Remembering her threats the last time they met, he hesitated a moment. Then he saw her sway slightly on her heeled boots and followed her.

“Eames is it, now?” she asked when they’d turned the corner. The accent didn’t change.

“Yes,” he said. “And you’re Polly.” He looked at her sharply, making it clear than him keeping her secret was contingent on her keeping his.

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “So tell me, Mr. Eames, how long do you plan to be in Paris?” 

Eames shrugged. “Until I get sick of it, or it gets sick of me. You?” 

She was standing very close to him, her back nearly against the building. It was an oddly vulnerable position for her to have chosen. It occurred to Eames that she wasn’t afraid of him, and his irritation was chased with attraction. Lately, most people were afraid of him. 

“About the same,” she said. “Until my business is done.” She reached a finger up and traced it down the side of his face, over the few day stubble he’d been cultivating since he arrived in France. “This is good. Suits your face.” She ran the finger down his chest, over his jacket, hooking it briefly in the front pocket. “No more uniform?”

He shook his head. “Done with that.” 

She smiled again. “Excellent.” She licked her lips and he felt it go straight through him. He’d spent months wanking to the idea of her after their last meeting, and here she was again, and not threatening to kill him this time. She met his gaze and held it, then tilted her head back a bit, letting it rest on the wall. “Why don’t you kiss me?” she suggested, her voice casual and lazy. He noticed again that her hand was shaking, just barely. 

He considered not doing it, but not for very long. When he moved forward, she met him halfway. He kissed her hard, and she complied easily, parting her lips for his tongue and wrapping her arms around his neck. He’d imagined it as more of a battle, but she seemed disinclined to fight. He could feel her drunkenness more now, a lack of coordination that seemed unlikely in her spare frame. He pushed his hands under her coat and ran them up her sides, struck again by how thin she was. He’d remembered her as being soft and curvy, but every angle was hard. He deepened the kiss and pushed a hand under her shirt, then stilled.

Her belly was bisected by a long, raised scar. He pulled back and looked at it in the dim streetlight glow, seeing it was still new, shiny and red. It was a long wound, obviously ill-tended and healing badly. 

She met his eyes and her expression told him not to ask for an explanation, so he didn't. Instead, he leaned toward her again, capturing her mouth, and moving his hands up to cup her breasts, running his thumbs under the bottom of her bra.

Eventually, she pulled back to breathe, and he moved his lips down her neck, lowering one hand to the hem of her skirt and rubbing it up her thigh. He thought he should take her back to the flat he was renting, but then thought better of it--she was hardly someone he could trust. It had been longer than he’d like to admit, though, since he’d fucked someone properly, and maybe the risk was worth taking.

She made the decision for him. As he did the mental math, she pulled away, just a bit and reached under her own skirt, pulling her underwear down her legs and off, then shoving them in the pocket of her jacket. The invitation was unmistakable, and he wasn’t about to turn it down. As she reached for the fly of his trousers, he fumbled in his own jacket pockets for a condom. 

He hissed when she took him in her hand, his mind flashing again on the weeks of fantasies of her in her previous disguise, doing something very like this. He was already hard, but she ran her thumb up his underside anyway, then raised an eyebrow at him, as if to show she was pleased with what she’d found. Holding the condom packet in one hand, he reached under her skirt with the other.

She was wet, slick and soft, ready for his fingers when he ran them between her legs. She didn’t make a sound, but did push against him, clearly seeking the touch. She leaned her head back against the wall again as he mapped her out, quiet, but tense, her breath catching as he rolled his thumb around her clit, careful not to touch directly. “Come on,” she whispered, grabbing for the condom packet. 

If she was in a rush, who was he to argue? He pulled back and rolled the condom on, then lifted her easily. She wrapped her legs around him and he shuddered at how strong her trim body felt, then at the dig of her boot heels into his skin. He pushed her back against the wall, then shoved inside her all at once and groaned.

She was hot and tight, her body taking him in and her hands steadying on his shoulders. He kissed her again as he started to thrust, surprised at himself for how far gone he already was. “Fuck,” he groaned into her mouth as she tilted her hips to take him deeper.

He heard himself talking, low and gravelly, but was barely aware of what he was saying. She stayed quiet, but her body spoke for her, meeting him on each thrust. He pushed her hard against the bricks, her coat and shirt riding up so her skin met the wall unprotected. He thought, vaguely, that he ought to pull them down, but he didn’t. Instead, he moved one hand from where it held her thigh and propped himself up, entering her harder that way.

“There,” she breathed, her eyes going wide. “Right there.” 

He nodded stupidly, the world narrowing to just the slap of his body against hers. He wanted to touch her, to make sure she could come like this, but he needed both hands to keep them upright. “Touch yourself,” he ordered, voice nearly breaking. “I want you to come.”

He’d later be surprised by how quickly she complied, wiggling a hand between them. He felt the back of her knuckles brush against him as she rubbed herself, her hips snapping back harder to meet his now. She breathed harder, but still didn’t call out. She was so quiet. 

He couldn’t hold on. He’d be embarrassed about it later, but for now he just rode it out, groaning and gasping as he came, forcing her harder into the wall with his thrusting hips.

She let him finish, then swung her legs down. He leaned up against the wall, trying to regain his balance, barely able to feel his feet. She righted herself quickly, pulling her skirt down and fixing her shirt and coat. Before he was even able to make a complete thought, her lips were ghosting over his cheek, her voice near his ear. “I’ll see you soon, Eames.” Then she was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come visit me on [Tumblr](https://coffeewithconsequences.tumblr.com/) or read the rest of my fic here at [Archive of Our Own](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/works)!


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